We Can Be Heroes

by Catherine Bruton

  Then he climbs up on to the windowsill.

  I don’t say anything. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to pretend I didn’t hear anything that’s just been said.

  ‘Come on!’ he says impatiently. ‘Have you got the binoculars?’

  I get them from under my pillow and clamber up next to him. It’s quite late now and visitors are starting to arrive at Priti’s house. They’re all men, all dressed up in robes, and they are all carrying plastic bags or big packages.

  ‘Bomb-making stuff probably!’ says Jed.

  He tries to take pictures with his phone, but they’re too far away and the pictures come out all dark and blurry.

  ‘No one’s going to be able to ID them from these,’ says Jed, annoyed.

  ‘Why don’t you write down all the car registration numbers?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he says.

  ‘And I’ll draw some pictures so we can do one of those photofit things later.’

  So this is what we do, but Jed keeps saying things like, ‘They all look alike,’ and, ‘Why do they all have to have the same colour hair? What’s wrong with blond or ginger Muslims? Why don’t you ever see any of those?’ And it’s starting to get dark so after a bit we give up because we can’t see properly any more.

  Anyway, it doesn’t really look much like a top-secret meeting of a terror cell to me, or at least if it is, they aren’t being very top-secret about it because they’re making lots of noise and laughing and there’s loud music playing.

  The other thing is that Priti’s dad seems to be there cos we see him welcoming the guests as they arrive and I don’t reckon Shakeel would invite over a load of terrorists while his parents were home. I say this to Jed, but he says that I didn’t even notice that Shakeel was a terrorist till he pointed it out, so what do I know about it?

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘maybe Mr Muhammed is in the cell too. Like father like son.’

  ‘It looks like they’re having a party, not planning a bomb attack.’

  ‘That’s what makes them so clever, these people,’ says Jed. ‘They make it all look so innocent until suddenly boom!’ He mimes a bomb explosion. ‘Bang goes the road! Glad I’m not hanging around here for much longer. You’ll be the one who gets to do a Ground Zero if your mum doesn’t get out of the loony bin soon.’

  ‘She’s not in the loony bin!’ I say.

  ‘Right, and your dad’s living in New Mexico with Elvis, right?’

  ‘They wouldn’t blow up the cul-de-sac anyway,’ I say.

  ‘You never know with these people. Unpredictability is the key to their success. Like the police are never going to send out the sniffer dogs to a quiet road like this. That’s probably why they moved here.’

  ‘Shakeel’s hardly going to bomb his own house, is he?’

  ‘What does he care? He’ll be living it up in Muslim heaven or whatever with all those virgins. It’s not like he’s going to miss his widescreen TV.’

  ‘Virgins?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know what a virgin is?’

  ‘Course I do,’ I say, reddening. ‘Just – what’ve they got to do with him blowing up his house?’

  ‘Suicide bombers get given loads of virgins when they go to Muslim heaven. I read it somewhere. Or my dad told me.’

  I have an image of loads of bikini babes dancing on a white fluffy cloud.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ Jed snorts, looks at me and then a slow grin appears over his face. ‘You don’t know, do you?’

  ‘Course I do,’ I say quickly. ‘I meant, why do they get given them? Is it like a reward or what?’

  ‘I knew you didn’t understand.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Do you know anything about sex?’

  ‘Yes. Lots,’ I say, my face burning.

  ‘Don’t worry. My dad’ll tell you everything you need to know.’

  ‘No thanks,’ I mutter.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he says. ‘At least I’ve got a dad.’

  ‘Who’s always having a go at you and never rings you.’

  ‘Like your mum never rings you?’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘At least my dad isn’t the one who went bungee jumping from the Twin Towers without a cable.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I say.

  ‘Oops, but we’re not allowed to mention that, are we? What are we allowed to talk about with you?’

  ‘Shut up,’ I say again.

  ‘That’s your thing, isn’t it? Shut up and put up. Maybe that’s what drove your mum to the loony bin. She couldn’t stand living with Bennie the mute.’

  Something in me snaps. ‘She’s not in the loony bin!’ I shout, launching myself at Jed. We both topple off the windowsill and on to the bed. I’m on top of Jed and I’m punching him. ‘Take that back!’ I shout.

  ‘Get off, you maniac!’

  ‘Take back what you said about my mum.’ I pummel at him with my fists.

  Suddenly the door swings opens. ‘What is going on in here?’

  We both look up to see Grandad standing in the doorway.

  For a moment, neither of us says anything.

  ‘Nothing,’ says Jed.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like nothing to me!’ says Grandad. ‘I could hear you over the bloody disco across the road.’

  ‘We were just playing,’ says Jed.

  ‘Ben?’ Grandad looks at me.

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘We were only messing around,’ Jed says again.

  Grandad looks at me again, but when I still say nothing, he says, ‘Well, stop messing around and get to sleep, do you hear?’

  ‘Yes, Grandad,’ we both say.

  After he’s gone, we both sit totally still for what feels like ages, but is probably only about a minute. ‘Thanks for not dobbing me in,’ I say eventually.

  ‘Sure,’ Jed says.

  I climb back into my bed and he climbs into his. I stare at the stars on the ceiling. ‘What did you mean when you said you aren’t going to be here for much longer?’ I ask.

  ‘What do you think?’ he says. ‘I’m heading off soon.’

  I want to ask him more, but then Granny puts her head round the door.

  ‘Everything OK now, boys?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Jed.

  I just nod.

  ‘I suppose all the music is keeping you up. Your grandfather is none too pleased about it either. He’s going to have a word with Mr Muhammed.’

  Then she hands me an envelope. ‘The picture you asked for,’ she says and kisses me lightly on the forehead before saying, ‘Sleep well, my two boys.’

  JULY 24TH

  According to Priti, the big ‘terror cell meeting’ last night was actually some kind of pre-wedding drinks party.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you!’ she giggles when she tells us.

  The three of us are sitting in the tree house, sharing my dad’s binoculars. We’re spying on Shakeel again while keeping watch for Zara, but there’s not much to see. Shakeel is just sitting at his desk and Zara and Tyreese haven’t emerged from the bushes for the last quarter of an hour.

  ‘Seriously, you two are like Dumb and Dumber.’

  ‘Who are they?’ I ask, but neither of them is listening.

  ‘Or Scooby-Doo and Shaggy,’ Priti goes on. ‘In which case, I’m guessing Ben’s the dog since he probably doesn’t even know what Shaggy means!’

  ‘He stands more chance than you do of ever getting one!’ Jed retorts quickly.

  They glare at each other.

  ‘How were we supposed to know it was only a drinks party?’ I say, trying to change the subject.

  ‘Yeah, I didn’t think you Muslims were even allowed to drink,’ says Jed. ‘Wasn’t there that bloke in the newspapers who reckoned he was going to drop dead cos he ate a crisp with, like, one milli-molecule of alcohol in it? Grandad reckons your lot will probably go bombing the crisp factory in revenge.’

  ‘It was a n
on-alcoholic drinks party,’ says Priti. ‘And there weren’t any crisps either.’

  ‘Yeah, well, my dad reckons you can’t be too careful with these terrorists. Even if they were only having Sunny D and pork scratchings.’

  ‘Muslims don’t eat pork either!’ Priti says.

  ‘Whatever,’ says Jed. ‘Better to be safe than sorry. I mean, look at him!’ We all glance in the direction of Shakeel’s window, through which we can see him tapping away at the computer keyboard. ‘He could be emailing Al Qaeda as we speak.’

  ‘Do you reckon Bin Laden has an email account?’ I say, imagining a cartoon Osama with his laptop in a cave in the desert.

  ‘He’s probably got a picture of your dad jumping out of the tower as his screen saver,’ says Jed, grinning.

  I look at him. He looks at me.

  ‘All right! Don’t go all psycho and start hitting me again,’ he says warily.

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Because I won’t go so easy on you next time.’

  ‘Don’t then,’ I say.

  ‘So what do you remember about Ben’s dad?’ Priti asks. I know she’s thinking about the memory box.

  ‘What like?’ asks Jed.

  ‘Like, do you have any particular memories of him?’

  ‘Not really,’ says Jed, who is now staring through the binoculars in the direction of the bushes – probably trying to get a glimpse of what Zara’s up to.

  ‘You must remember something!’ says Priti.

  ‘All right.’ He puts down the binoculars. ‘I remember this one time we were playing football: me, Dad, Uncle Andrew and my mum.’ He stops for a moment after he mentions his mum. ‘Anyway, me and Dad were on one team against Uncle Andrew and Mum: she was rubbish and he couldn’t run properly because he had you on his shoulders.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Jed.

  ‘Why don’t I remember it then?’

  ‘I dunno. You were only like two or something.’

  ‘Well, you can’t have been much older,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t blame me if you’ve got a rubbish memory.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asks Priti impatiently.

  ‘Ben was on Uncle Andrew’s shoulders so he had to hold on to your feet while he ran and you were bouncing up and down and giggling. It was dead funny. Our team kept scoring and my dad kept going on about how good we were and how crap Mum was, and then your dad scored these two amazing goals and then it was time for tea, so it was a draw, and my dad was dead annoyed.’

  ‘That’s it?’ says Priti, who’s been taking notes in a little pad like secretaries or reporters have.

  ‘Yeah. Pretty much. I just remember him saying to my mum, “We can’t let them beat us every time, can we, Karen?”’

  There’s a pause and then Priti says, ‘So your mum used to live with you.’

  ‘Yup.’ Jed picks up the binoculars.

  ‘When did she stop living with you then?’

  ‘Last year. When she walked out.’

  ‘Just like that? Up and went?’

  ‘She said she was going to come back for me as soon as she was on her feet.’ Jed is staring hard at the bushes.

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘Yeah, but my dad said she couldn’t just pick and choose when she wants to be a mum.’

  ‘I thought kids always got to stay with their mums when their folks split up,’ says Priti.

  ‘Well, I said I didn’t want to, didn’t I?’ says Jed, putting down the binoculars and flicking the hair out of his face.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Can’t trust her, can I?’ he says, not looking at either of us. ‘Like my dad said, she walked out on me once; who’s to say she won’t do it again? Why do you care anyway?’

  ‘I don’t,’ says Priti. ‘So do you see her?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’ Jed is staring down at the tree trunk, flicking off bits of bark with his finger and thumb.

  ‘Doesn’t she want to see you?’

  ‘Course she does.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She stalks me. Hangs out at the school gates at home time. Comes to parents’ evenings where she’s not welcome. That sort of thing.’

  I didn’t know this. ‘What do you do?’ I ask.

  He looks right at me. ‘What do you think I do?’

  I shrug.

  ‘I ignore her of course.’

  ‘Seriously?’ says Priti. ‘What does she do then?’

  ‘She calls out and stuff,’ he shrugs. ‘It’s dead embarrassing.’

  ‘Is she allowed to do that?’ Priti asks.

  ‘No.’ Jed looks away and kicks at the tree trunk so hard a big chunk of bark comes flying off. ‘This one time she was hanging outside the school gates and the headmaster came out and asked her to go away and she started screaming and they had to get the police. She’s loopy tunes. A nutcase. Whenever I see her, she’s crying. It’s pathetic!’

  He keeps kicking the tree over and over again and we all fall silent.

  Then Priti says, ‘I reckon my mum would turn into a screaming banshee if she wasn’t allowed to see me. She says I drive her mad, but I reckon she’d be worse if she didn’t have me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, all women have a bit of a screw loose,’ says Jed.

  I doodle Priti with a loose screw twisting its way out of one of her bunches.

  ‘Oh, charming!’ says Priti.

  ‘You’re halfway there already,’ says Jed. ‘Just wait till you get older. All women lose their marbles. Look at Ben’s mum.’

  I look up quickly. ‘What about my mum?’

  Jed looks right at me. I stare back.

  ‘Has she even bothered to call you since they put her away?’ he asks.

  ‘She’s in hospital.’ I can feel my face getting tight and hot. I can’t believe he’s going on about this again.

  ‘Whatever,’ says Jed.

  I don’t know whether I want to punch him or burst into tears.

  ‘She’s been sending him those cards though,’ says Priti.

  ‘How do you know about the cards?’ I say, turning away from Jed, shaking my head and blinking to stop myself from crying.

  ‘Jed told me.’

  Jed just shrugs.

  I blink some more. ‘Anyway, she doesn’t send the cards,’ I say. ‘Gary does. It’s his handwriting.’

  ‘So she gets Gary to write them for her,’ says Priti. ‘It doesn’t take a detective to work that out. Why would he send you cards saying he loves you like flying pigs? It doesn’t make sense.’

  I glare at Jed again because he must have been reading the cards.

  ‘They’ve probably got your mum in a straightjacket in that loony hospital,’ says Jed. ‘So she can’t write them herself.’

  I look at them both and I can feel the tears coming. ‘You don’t know anything about my mum,’ I say. ‘Either of you.’

  ‘Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when she buggers off forever like my mum,’ says Jed. ‘Then you’ll have to live with the wrinklies till they die.’

  ‘That’d be cool,’ says Priti. Then, seeing the expression on my face, she adds quickly, ‘But I’m sure it won’t happen.’

  I say I’m going back inside to get a drink of water. I hear Priti tell Jed to leave off teasing me.

  ‘It’s not my fault he’s a crybaby,’ Jed replies.

  I let myself into the kitchen. Shakeel is there, chopping onions.

  ‘I’m just getting a drink,’ I say, turning away so he can’t see I’ve been crying.

  ‘Please, please. Help yourself,’ he says. ‘Do you want tea? Juice?’

  ‘Just water is fine,’ I say. I have my back to him as I fill a cup with water. Looking across the garden, I can see Jed trying to push Priti off the tree house. Priti looks like she’s holding her own.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your father,’ Shakeel says.

  I hesitate. ‘Thanks,’ I say, because that’s what my mum always says.


  ‘I think I understand now why your grandfather is a little hostile to our family,’ Shakeel goes on.

  I don’t reply. I keep staring at the tree house. Priti is hanging on by her nails, but looks like she’s going to bring Jed down with her.

  ‘Please. Don’t misunderstand me,’ Shakeel goes on. ‘He has not been rude, but he is perhaps – and understandably so – ill at ease with us.’

  I see Jed looking in the direction of the house, so I turn round.

  Shakeel looks at me. He must notice my red eyes because he says, ‘I’m sorry, the onions are making you cry?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I’m pretty sure he knows it’s not the onions, but I’m grateful to him for saying it.

  Then he asks me something that no one has asked me before. ‘Do you also feel angry towards Muslims because of what happened to your father?’

  The thing about having a parent who died in 9/11 is that adults never actually ask you about it. It’s the kids who ask all the questions. Adults go out of their way NOT to mention it. Or they mention it and then go silent, like it’s a swear word or something. Or sometimes they get really angry and use long words.

  ‘Abomination,’ one lady said. ‘It’s an abomination.’ Or they talk about ‘terrorism’ and ‘Islamic fundamentalism’. But they never ask me what I think about any of it.

  Not that I know what I’d say anyway. Which is why, when Shakeel asks, I just shrug and say, ‘I’m not sure.’

  Shakeel pauses for a moment. He has finished chopping the onions and he pushes them into a bowl. ‘You understand that the men who flew their planes into the towers did so because they believed they were at war. That America and the West are waging a war against Islam?’

  ‘And are they?’ I ask. Because I don’t want to go outside. Not just yet. And because I never get to talk about any of this. Not properly.

  ‘That’s a good question,’ Shakeel says, taking a sweet potato and starting to peel it. ‘I suspect the answer depends on who you ask. I don’t think that your grandfather and Osama Bin Laden would see eye to eye for example!’ he laughs.

  ‘Does it make any difference anyway?’ I ask.

  ‘Whether we see 9/11 as an act of war or an act of terrorism? I think so, don’t you?’

  I shrug again.

  ‘Collateral damage is considered an unavoidable – even a necessary – element of modern war,’ says Shakeel, talking like a teacher now. Priti tells me he is always doing this to her. ‘Did you know that US drone strikes in Afghanistan kill an average of fifty innocent citizens to every legitimate militant target?’